Consequently, so am I. I knew it was only a matter of time before she opened her pretentious drivel-prone claptrap about the rumors of her alleged infidelity.
What is Mme. Sarkozy babbling about now? Same ole, same ole...she's become the French Bill Clinton. But it wasn't enough to simply discredit the embarrassing accusations, no sir. Carla was out for blood.
The self-proclaimed Princess Di replacement has gone and pointed her spidery finger at a prominent French politician. But not any ole attention-monger... The Queen of personal drama herself: Rachida Dati.
Never heard of her? She's a former justice minister who became a tabloid superstar when she squeezed one out and refused to name said infant's baby-daddy. Ahh, gotta love the invasive political melarky.
Oh, and there's... that little book. That book about the rivalry between Carla and Rachida. Tears and Mascara. When I read the title, my dinner made a break for it.
This reads like a bad soap opera. Rachida get's knocked up... mum's the word on dada... enter the other woman, Carla... Baby-mama barges in, mascara streaming, and begs the President of France to be the godfather of her child...what next?
Vagivalry. That's what.
Oh C. You should've stuck to making bad pop songs.